Rebuilt
by Pacificsun
Summary: Shepard is forced to come to terms with her mortality following the Lazarus Project, and she struggles to let down her walls keeping her isolated and cold. After receiving this second chance, she visits Earth to make peace with her short, stolen childhood. And once her walls are down, there's no telling who might slip in. Shakarian.
1. Chapter 1

_A long story with short chapters. Eventual Shakarian. Enjoy!_

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CHAPTER 1

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Commander Shepard sits in her cabin, meditating. She feels the reality of the situation bearing down on her. Through the haze of her adrenaline rush, the truth of her situation had momentarily become nebulous. She wrings her hands as she sits at her desk, looking halfheartedly at her personal terminal. There is so much writhing in her head, screaming and clawing at her thoughts like a wild animal.

She wonders about Kaidan and where he is, and what he would say if he knew that she was a cybernetic creation forged from dead meat. Her thoughts turn to Liara, and Shepard hopes that she made it back to the Citadel safely. Knowing Liara, she was probably excavating a ruin on some distant planet, studiously immersing herself in her work. Dozens of other faces flicker across her consciousness as her face tightens into a frown. She flexes her hand, trying to remember what it felt like before dying.

_Dying._

The phrase alone makes her jolt. Dying was something she never dreamed of, something that still feels strange on her tongue. She remembers the last moments of her life, flung out into the endless chasm of space. She remembers her lungs, struggling for air and her vision blurring as her brain starved for oxygen. Yet here she is; she remains the same, save the scars lining her body. She caught sight of the ugly marks marring her form as she changed out of her armor and into a casual, Cerberus-issued outfit. Violent pink marks trace her torso and her thighs, crawling up her back and down her arms. She touches her face softly, fingertips lightly skimming her scars. She had never cared much for looks, but the scars make her seem meaner, more violent. She doesn't like the effect; she looks like a mercenary.

She tries to find a reason why she was given a second chance. She served as she could, and stopped Saren from destroying the Citadel. She died naturally and should've stayed that way. _Why me?_ She fails to answer that question with any conviction. Instead she breathes deeply, relishing the feeling of air in her lungs. She still remembers her death vividly: the gasping for air, clawing at her oxygen tubes as she spun weightless through space.

Shepard had always been a soldier. She followed orders unquestioningly and upheld her duty to the Alliance. She lived simply as she could, carrying out her orders to the best of her ability. She was a marine, after all. Her life was her weapon and her weapon was her life. Speeding across the galaxy gave little time for existential crises.

But here, in her spacious cabin, she feels the insidious quiet settle upon her. Her thoughts are screaming at her where they were once overpowered by the roar of gunfire and battle. She is in the eye of the storm, raging relentlessly around her, and all she can do is endure the silence. The present suddenly seems incredibly tenuous. Her life seems such a precious, fragile thing, whereas before she rushed into conflict without doubt or fear.

She puts her head into her hands and presses her palms over her eyes. She can barely breathe for a moment, as if there's some great weight on her chest. She knows she can't wait much longer; the dossiers on her desk await her inspection and the Collector threat grows with each passing minute. She again must spring into battle, guns blazing and heart afire. But she feels almost dead, the fire of her soul extinguished to a small spark. She wonders if Cerberus tampered with her brain, if she was just some AI programmed to think it's Commander Shepard. The thought sends chills down her spine and she does her best to dismiss it.

Miranda had imparted the importance of recruiting the salarian doctor first, and Shepard glances at his dossier. Miranda Lawson immediately rubbed Shepard the wrong way; she was smug and arrogant and Shepard disliked her on sight. Still, she was a piece to the puzzle of Cerberus and their intentions in rebuilding her. She supposes she should keep her enemies close, anyways.

"Alright, to Omega then," Shepard mumbles to herself as she picks up two more dossiers along with the salarian's. The shady Archangel and ruthless mercenary, Zaeed Massani. Shepard rises from her desk and begins to peel off her clothes and change into her armor. If there's one thing that she's sure of, it's that Omega will be comfortingly familiar in its filthiness.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

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Zaeed is a brutal-looking man, his lips pulled tightly across his scarred face. He is one of the first sights to greet Shepard at Omega, and he pledges to help them in exchange for assistance on a contract. Shepard is hardly surprised. A man like that is only concerned for his personal gain, and Cerberus was willing to make it worth his while. If offered a higher bid, he would shoot her in the back without hesitation. She ignores the distaste she feels towards him and continues on into the depths of Omega to see Aria T'Loak. She feels uneasy as she weaves through the colorful patchwork of species dotting Omega. Jacob and Miranda follow her, and thankfully Miranda is quiet save for an occasionally snide remark.

Afterlife pulsates with life and color, though there is a griminess to the club and its patrons. Asari dancers twist elegantly around poles whilst turians and batarians watch. Some congregate at the bar while other dance with abandon. Shepard can hardly remember the last time she's been in a nightclub. Afterlife reminds her of the seedy establishments she frequented in the slums of Earth before she enlisted in the Alliance. She was young, reckless, and angry, drinking to the point of belligerence and terrorizing her foster parents. She remembers the heat and the sweat of those bars, and the alcohol churning in her stomach. She winces at the recollection of her violent youth.

"Come on," she says, urging them along with a short nod of her head. They follow without complaint through the filthy throng reeking of alcohol.

Aria T'Loak is untouchable. Shepard can already tell by the number of strong bodies around her, poised to gun down anyone that might get too close. The asari sits reposed and elegant, her blue face serene yet also sharp with intelligence and an implacable self-assurance. Shepard is impressed by her obvious power, but still approaches the asari nonetheless.

"That's close enough," Aria drawls. Her guards all draw their weapons, and Shepard glances at the dozens of pistols aimed directly at her. With a nod of her head, the guns are put away and a batarian scans Shepard. She does not object.

"I was told you're the person to talk to if I have questions," Shepard says, as the batarian finishes scanning her and steps aside.

"Depends on the questions."

Aria stares directly into Shepard's eyes, blue gaze clashing with green. Her eyes are challenging, almost playful if not for their dangerous nature. "You run Omega?" Shepard asks.

Aria dissolves into short, barking laughter. Her laugh is cold and mirthless, as Shepard can only assume she herself is. She turns to look down upon Afterlife, thrumming and pulsating with the vulgar energy of life. Asari dancers twirl around their poles, exhibiting their lithe, nubile bodies in the artificial glow. Aria continues to chuckle, her back to Shepard as she soaks in the sight of the Afterlife. She stretches out her arms, bathing in harsh orange light. "I am Omega." She paces before Shepard, her mouth twisted in a smug grin. "But you need more. Everyone needs more something. And they all come to me."

"I'm the boss, CEO, queen," she pauses, "if you're feeling dramatic. It doesn't matter. Omega has no titled ruler and only one rule." She sits and crosses her legs, again fixing her gaze pointedly upon Shepard. "Don't fuck with Aria."

"Simple enough," Shepard says, taking a seat on the couch adjacent to Aria. Aria keeps her eyes fixated upon Shepard, and Shepard finds the scrutiny of her gaze unnerving. She has all the admirable qualities of an asari: beauty, intelligence, power, wisdom, persuasion. She is a dark doppelganger of the rather shy, quiet Liara. Shepard finds herself missing Liara as her gaze locks with Aria T'Loak's. She remembers Liara's confession, the pliability of her body and the sensuality of her mouth. Kissing her was like drinking Thessian wine.

"Somewhere else?" Aria asks. Shepard is brought back to herself, back to her violent reality and the tasks laid out before her.

"I'm trying to track down Archangel."

"You and half of Omega. You want him dead, too?"

"I'm making a team, he's on my list."

"Interesting." Aria leans back languidly, her full lips pursing with interest. "You're going to make some enemies teaming up with Archangel. That's assuming you can get to him. He's in a bit of trouble right now."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

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Garrus steadies his trembling arms as he fires his sniper. The shot whizzes from the barrel and hits its mark as his shoulder absorbs the shock of the kickback. His muscles are sore from hours of standing crouched over his rifle. His eyes are dry and his stomach is full of nothing. There is a small break in the wave of mercs, and he takes the opportunity to swallow the last of his stimulants. He awaits for their effects to kick in, but knows that no pill could restore him completely. His body cries out for rest and his mind is shrouded in a haze of exhaustion. He notices that his aim is starting to become sloppy. A bullet that should have gone through a merc's head instead grazes his shoulder. The merc cries out in pain but continues to press on over the bridge. Garrus curses, reloading his sniper and lining up another shot. He can't afford to waste ammo; every shot must be a kill shot.

There is a part of Garrus that knows he's going to die here on this ledge. The waves of mercs, fresh and unarmored recruits, are endless. They are thrown at him as the hours trickle by. Garrus doesn't know how long he's been standing there, massacring the freelance mercs as they expose themselves on the bridge. Bodies no one has yet bothered to pick up lie in limp piles. Garrus tries to feel remorse but he hardly feels anything. He hasn't felt much at all in the past two years.

Even though he wasn't there, a part of him died with the Normandy and with Shepard. He had found a place of purpose and belonging, even as a turian on a human ship. It was an odd bunch, Garrus supposes, that banded together to take down Saren. Yet he felt that all of them were a part of his family, no matter their species. Shepard was at the center of it all.

The destruction of the Normandy meant an end to that part of his life. It meant an end to playing hero and following Commander Shepard into the heart of destruction. She always walked through the fire and seemed to come out barely singed. Garrus thinks he might have convinced himself that Shepard was invincible. He forgot that underneath the confidence and the armor was a soft, organic being so fragile to the world around it.

He had forgot that not even she could walk through the center of an inferno and avoid getting burned.

Another merc falls to Garrus' keen aim. His visor keeps count of targets dispatched, but the number makes him sick. He reloads his sniper again and waits. There is an eerie quality to the silence between the waves. With each passing reprieve he grows more and more sure that this is the place where he dies. It's a damn shame it had to be Omega of all places.

He could have gone back to C-Sec, he muses. His father, after the fall of Saren, had insisted he return to the Citadel and pursue a Spectre title. Garrus had just arrived at the Citadel when Liara came back with the news.

For some reason, being in the Citadel after that made him sick. The politics and bureaucrats made his stomach turn and sitting behind a desk at C-Sec made him want to tear out his fringe. He felt like an unused knife left to grow dull and eventually useless. He left without a word to anyone, packing his things and finding the first transport he could to Omega.

At first he wasn't sure why he chose Omega. Maybe because it was so different from the society of the Citadel. There was no pretension or insincere civility. There were no simpering lobbyists or reporters or false flattery. There was only the violent, vibrating music and and base instincts. When Garrus first arrived, he secured himself a grimy one-room apartment and spent the rest of his days drinking, dancing, and fucking. He could barely remember the names of the asari or the turians he would bring back to his room, swaying and stumbling as he searched so urgently for something to shake his numbness. He drank himself into a constant, daily daze beneath the orange lights of Afterlife.

After a while he began to wake up from his self-induced stupor, realizing with disgust how far he had fallen. He realized his life was carrying on purposelessly, and in his disaster he lost direction and meaning.

He started to see the desolation hidden behind the dirty glamor of the nightlife at Omega. He saw the addicts sprawled on the ground, groaning and begging insensibly. He saw the orphans, growing up in a harsh world that honed them to become violent and hard. He saw the mercenary groups extorting money from business and dealing in intimidation and fear.

The title _Archangel_ was an unexpected moniker, and he was never entirely sure where it came from. He tried to find meaning in relieving Omega of some of its worst evils. He knew he was ultimately making little difference in the machinations of the planet, but it gave him direction again. It gave him a sense of honor to raise him from the depravity of the past months spent there. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the feeling of a gun in his hands.

He hadn't spoken to his family in years. Sometimes Garrus thought wistfully of his sister, and even of his father, despite his severity. He thinks of his family now as he readies himself for the next wave of mercenaries. He thinks of the Normandy. He thinks of Shepard.

As the mercs stumble over the bodies of those before them, Garrus thinks that death might be a nice vacation.

His eyes flicker across the bridge, noticing something strange. The mercs begin to fall in quick succession, and he sees a group of three pushing their way past the bridge. Garrus is intrigued, and finds his finger frozen on the trigger. He fires several halfhearted shots towards the group, but a human woman with long, dark hair deflects them with biotics. The other human, a larger man with a dark complexion, fires at the mercs and clears a path for them. The shortest of the three stands between them, a helmet covering his head.

They make their way over the bridge, and Garrus readies himself. He wonders if this is the moment that he dies, and finds a strange relief in the notion. The door opens, and the group enters. The short, helmeted one steps forward.

"Archangel?"

That voice is haunting. Garrus feels a cold chill run across his body. They lower their weapons and step forward and Garrus feels his sniper sliding out of his tight grip. He fires off one more shot, maybe hoping that it could wake him from his delirium. The group approaches as he pulls off his helmet.

"Shepard? I thought you were dead."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

After his extraction from Omega, Garrus took up his duties on the Normandy with minimal complaint. He tinkers away with his calibrations and mods weapons. He passes the hours with innocuous things, leaving him feeling restless and cramped. Slowly, the ship grows more populous. Garrus feels like every time Shepard leaves, she returns with another addition. They live together in a strained silence. Most of them are strange faces, and Garrus keeps to himself. This new Normandy feels like a cheap imitation despite its numerous upgrades and gleaming consoles.

Garrus doesn't mind the rough, dark humor of Zaeed. He finds that Zaeed, despite his standoffish first impression, shares his passion for weaponry. At mealtimes they sometimes exchange words and argue. The asari justicar is cold, quiet, and remote. She is one of the most beautiful asari Garrus has ever seen, but her raw beauty is tempered by her stiff language and rigid discipline. She only speaks to the crew when necessary, and Garrus finds that otherwise she has nothing to say. Kasumi Goto, the thief, keeps to her room. The first week of her arrival, he caught sight of her leaving the women's restroom. Quiet, muffled sobs broke the silence of the night as she made her way back to her room. When she saw Garrus, her mouth twisted in sadness and cheeks streaked with tears, she disappeared.

The Cerberus operatives, Miranda and Jacob, barely interact with Garrus. He finds Miranda Lawson an insufferable woman, never letting him forget that she ranks above him as the XO. Jacob is polite but Garrus senses little substance behind his good intentions. Jack, tattooed from head to foot, oftentimes breaks their civil indifference towards each other, brashly voicing the things most are too polite to say. Garrus almost admires her, even though she's a lunatic.

Mordin is brilliant but his thoughts move in a flurry almost too fast to follow. He is always working, keeping his rapid fire mind constantly in motion. Garrus likes the salarian well enough, but he is usually too busy to engage in conversation. Joker is the same as ever, all sarcasm and humorous deflection. Garrus hadn't realized how much he missed the man.

Their team continues to grow with every passing day, and the ship feels a little fuller. Shepard comes back from each mission looking slightly more careworn, with new cuts and bruises as a testament. Her green eyes look dull with exhaustion and she takes her meals alone in her cabin. Garrus wants to confront her, ask her why she hasn't taken him on any of the missions. He feels trapped, languishing while he should be honing himself for the days to come. But Shepard is a ghost on the ship, disappearing and reappearing, and almost as vaporous as smoke. Her absence unnerves him and whenever he happens to see her, it's as if he's watching her from behind glass.

He knows Shepard, and he knows that this isn't her. She's different, from the scars carved deep into her cheeks, to her lifeless manner. Garrus remembers her as a spitfire of passion and energy, eager for the next mission and always laughing at his quips. Now all he can evoke is a small smile that never quite reaches her eyes. He vaguely wonders if Cerberus changed her, if the Shepard before him is merely a convincing imitation. He tries to dismiss the thought but it remains.

He leaves the main battery, trying to search for a distraction. He paces past the crew members sitting and relaxing. They're all human, and Garrus feels their wary eyes on him. They are large eyes, shining and full of fear: the eyes of prey. He's used to the inherent distrust and cautious gazes, especially on a Cerberus ship.

Garrus sees Jacob leading a drell from the elevator and Garrus peers around the corner to get a better glimpse. The drell is long-limbed and slender and there is a slinking grace to his movements. His footsteps are soundless and his hands are folded serenely behind his back. Garrus instantly knows he's a dangerous, well-trained and level-headed. He must be the newest addition to their strange assortment of specialists.

And that means Shepard is back.

He takes the elevator up to her cabin, his teeth anxiously clicking together. He doesn't know what to say to her; he finds that his original intent is never properly articulated around her. The thoughts and words and meanings become an incoherent mess, and he usually looks a fool. Her green eyes are utterly without deceit, demanding the truth and stripping down his defenses. He tries to organize his thoughts but finds that they are already a disaster. And if she's still the same Shepard, she'll probably never show weakness to him, or anyone for that matter. There was a running joke on the Normandy SR-1 that Commander Shepard has never shed a single tear, even as a baby.

The elevator doors slide open Garrus knocks gently on the door to her cabin. A bedraggled Shepard opens the door. She considers him for a moment before nodding to him to come in. He follows her in, glancing around her cabin. This is the first time he's been in it, and Cerberus has certainly been good to her. It's spacious and equipped with numerous luxuries. There's even a fish tank, though Garrus notes the dead fish laying on its side at the bottom.

"Your fish is dead," he says lamely.

"Is it?" she asks, peering over her shoulder at the glowing tank. She turns her back to him and rifles through a med kit. She wears a tank top, and Garrus can see the strength of her shoulders. They're neither feminine nor graceful, but they're strong and toned from hauling heavy equipment. The muscles flex impressively with each movement, and he watches with interest at the workings of her body beneath its layer of smooth, light skin. It is so different from his own form, covered almost entirely in thick scales. He often forgets how soft humans are, and how easily they bleed. Her purple hair is not tied up as it is normally, but splayed across her shoulders. He always wondered about her hair, vibrant and unusual from the rest of the human women he'd met. But he supposes that it's like her: distinctly unique from the rest of her species.

"Is there something you need, Garrus?" she asks, her back still to him as she rubs some topical ointment on her arms. He can smell the harsh, antispetic smell from across the room.

"I came to check in," he says. "You know, with this whole 'walking into hell' business."

"I'm fine, Garrus."

"See, I don't believe you, Shepard. I know you, and I know that this isn't like you."

"I've just...got a lot on my mind. I was dead for two years. It's a lot."

"You still have friends," Garrus says, taking a step forward. "I don't trust these Cerberus bastards, and I know you don't either. But even when the world is going to hell, I'm still right here with you." Shepard grows quiet, her muscles tense and rigid. "Look at me, Shepard."

She turns to him, her scarred cheek catching the light. There is a gleam in her eyes, bright with collected emotions too complex to separate. Her chest and arms are covered with pink scars which serve as jarring reminders of her brief affair with death.

"Look at us," Garrus says, chuckling softly as he brushes the scars on the side of his face and neck. She smiles at him and for the first time in weeks, it feels genuine.

"We're quite a pair, aren't we?" she retorts. "Mine are disappearing, slowly but surely. I guess that's the benefit of being partially cybernetic."

"I think you look as lovely as ever, Commander Shepard." Garrus' mandible twitches with good-natured sarcasm.

"Smartass." She sits on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs and leaning back. There are circles under her eyes and bruises on her forearms, but he notes the smoothness of her skin around the scars from the cybernetic implants. If anything, she looks younger than he remembers. Cerberus didn't spare any expense in remaking her. She sits before him rebuilt into something that is Shepard but also not.

"What do you think about this whole Cerberus situation?"

Shepard surveys him for a moment. Her eyes scan him up and down, and Garrus isn't entirely sure what she's looking for. He feels so small beneath her scrutiny, which he finds almost amusing, considering her small stature. She stands a least a head shorter than him but her presence is so much larger than her confining physical form. "I wish I had a definite answer. As far as I can tell, Cerberus didn't tamper with me aside from upgrading me physically. Otherwise, I'm fairly sure all of my memories and my sense of self are intact. I don't trust The Illusive Man, and I don't trust this operation. I feel like there's something sinister lurking beneath all the gadgets and resources. There are always strings attached. I just haven't figured out what they are."

"Well, wherever you go, I'm right there with you."

"Thanks, Garrus." There is warmth behind her tired eyes and gratefulness in her tone.

"And can I ask, who's the drell?"

"He's our latest addition to our team. His name is Thane Krios. I don't know what to make of him but he's a skilled assassin."

"That's all well and good, Shepard," Garrus says, leaning against her desk, "but if you don't start taking me on some missions soon, I'm going to go crazier than Jack."

Shepard laughs, flashing her white, dull teeth. "Fair enough. I have been sidelining you for too long."

"Why is that?" Garrus asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I've been testing the skills of our newest recruits. I know you, Garrus. I don't know them." Garrus catches the lie, but doesn't press it any further. He knows her well enough to see the flicker of deception flit across her features and then disappear. She was one hell of a solider, but always a bad liar. He'd made fun of her for it once, joking that the Alliance would be in deep trouble if she were ever captured. She had grinned at him, impish and challenging. She retorted that she would never let herself be taken alive.

"I'm glad you came to talk to me," she says. Her dog tags glitter in the harsh light of the cabin, gently clinking against her chest as she shifts.

Garrus' sharp blue eyes meet her green ones shaded by long lashes. She looks every bit a soldier, her body muscled and imposing despite her height with her fatigues tucked into tightly laced boots. Throughout their friendship, marked by mutual respect and trust, he had never thought of her as weak. She didn't shed a tear at Ashley William's funeral, her face a stoic mask never broken by the tragedies around her. She charged into battle like some warrior of myth, gliding through gunfire and spraying bullets around her as if chaos was an art. She was a she-devil with a sharp tongue and sharper aim.

So now he wonders why she seems so vulnerable. He wonders what changed in her when she was rebuilt. He isn't sure if this is the Shepard that was always there, hidden beneath a soldier's bravado, or some side effect of being plucked from the grave. Either way, he wants to crack the hard surface of her mask, worn thin and brittle by the constant conflict defining her existence. "Anytime," Garrus answers.

"Dismissed." She smiles at him. He turns to leave, and almost makes it out the door before he pauses, his curiosity compelling him ask:

"So, why purple?"

Shepard looks faraway, swept up in the torrent of some memory. She glances towards the floor, her dark lashes contrasting against her pale, scarred cheek. "It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell you someday."


End file.
